


Survivor's Guilt

by dinosaurApocalypse



Category: Benjaminutes - Fandom, The Riftdale Chronicles (Web Series)
Genre: chiefs out for blood, oof, smith is dead and chief is angry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-04 23:15:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15157559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosaurApocalypse/pseuds/dinosaurApocalypse
Summary: Smith is gone, and with him went everything bright and good in the world. Smith is dead, and so is the hope and happiness that he brought. Smith is gone, and Chief will never be the same again. Smith is dead, and without him, so is Chief.Smith is gone, and he isn't coming back.Smith is dead, and soon the bastard who killed him will be dead too.He's a dead man walking. The only problem is, Chief isn't sure if he's talking about the priest or himself.





	1. Dead Man Walking

        The dimly lit bar smells like sweat, alcohol, and depression that shakes the unsuspecting person to the very core. Some barely audible, long forgotten country song plays through the speakers, nearly drowned out by the static and the quiet clinking of glass against tables and the bar itself. Few people come here this early, or at all, preferring to drink in the quiet loneliness of their own home than to drink in the isolating, screaming loneliness that is drinking alone in a bar. However, for some, it's much too painful to drink in a home that's much too empty, much too dull, much too painful. A home that should be filled with the bright, happy smiles and laughter of a man whose faith in the world was much too pure and clean, but instead is filled with the aching, dull loneliness of a man who had failed that kid, who saw him _die_.

        Chief can't stop his hands from shaking, gripping the glass of whiskey much tighter than necessary. The glass is set on the table with a thunk, filling the mostly empty bar with the sound.  All he can see is his partner lying on the floor, all he can smell is the metallic tang of copper in the air. All he can see is the dark grey, which turned into shocking red in this world. The shocking, bright red that covered the young cop's chest and hand, spreading across the floor much too quickly to be able to save him. The quiet, panic filled voice fills the space in Chief's head, the blood pumping in his ears keeping him from hearing anything but the whispered apology.  _Chief, I'm sorry..._

        Chief hates the color red now.

        He quickly gets up, throwing money on the bar beside his half-full glass of whiskey. He has work to do; he can't be sitting here drinking his life away when he could be sitting in his office, looking over files and drinking his life away. Leaving the bar, he pauses to allow himself to adjust to the major differences in light. This world, Riftdale, with its bright colors and seemingly happy surroundings, is worse than the gray, dull world from whence Chief had come. Riftdale is infinitely worse, in Chief's opinion, because Riftdale is the place that took Smith from him. Smith, who fell in love with Riftdale and all the colors that fills it. Smith, who told jokes and smiled even when there wasn't any reason to. Smith, who believed everyone is worth saving. Smith, who died because he tried to save the one man who couldn't be saved.

        It's easy enough to get his hands on the coroner's report, and it's even easier to lock himself in his office to pour over the contents as if it'll provide any insight to how to catch the bastard who took the kid away from the world who needed him much too soon. All the details of the coroner's report only serve to make Chief feel worse and more angry. It should have been him that died. It should have been anyone but Smith, yet the world decided- no, the Priest decided that someone like Smith had no business living in a world that would only serve to crush him later. Who was he to decide that Smith should die? Who was he to fucking decide to shoot the kid through the heart and cut his life much too short. People need Smith. Chief needs Smith. Yet that bastard cruelly ripped the poor boy apart and left a corpse in his path of destruction, not even caring for a moment about what he had done.

        "Jonathan Smith," Chief muses to himself quietly, taking a swig of his flask and scowling down at the paper as if that would do anything to bring Smith back or give him any clues on how to get the priest, "Why did you have to be the one to die? Why did I make you promise me? It should have been me holding that gun. It should have been me on the autopsy table. No. It should have been _him_."

        How could he have let pure, innocent, barely able to properly shoot a gun Smith be the one in the life or death situation? Smith only had one eye; his aim was off. Chief knew that. There was no possible way Smith could have, or would have, been able to shoot the priest. It's all Chief's fault. Why did he forget his gun? Why didn't he just take Smith's and have him stay back, or better yet, stay in the fucking car?

        Looking down at the desk, hands curling in and pulling at his hair, Chief decides he can't take this anymore. He grabs his flask and stands up, shoving the chair entirely too roughly under the desk and taking a long drink from the metal flask. He pauses, staring down at it with a look and feeling of absolute disgust. How can he catch the guy responsible for killing Smith if he's too busy getting drunk off his ass? He needs to focus, and to do that, he needs to be sober. With a last glance at the coroner's report, looking directly at the X marking Smith's injury, Chief lets his flask hit the floor, the thunk nearly making him overcome with grief yet again. Smith would have picked it up and set it on the desk, giving Chief a too bright smile and a reminder that leaving things on the floor is a good way for them to break.

        A flash of red catches Chief's eye long enough for him to pause and turn to it, heart in his throat, before actually noticing what it is and relaxing only slightly. A drawing? Entirely red with an outline of a man, the memory of it making Chief want to cry and smile at the same time, though he does neither. Instead, he calmly picks up the picture of the priest that Smith had drawn. All red, all bad, not a single good thing about the priest. Not a single good thing to be said or thought of. He killed Smith. He needs to pay.

        He will pay. _Make him pay._

        Chief crumples up the paper, face curled in furious disgust as thoughts of the priest run through his head. How dare he live while Smith died. How dare he kill someone as good and pure as Smith? How can someone so evil be allowed to exist, yet someone so good have to die? Chief drops the drawing, watching it land beside the flask, and not looking back, grabs his gun and walks out of his office.

        He will pay.

        Smith is gone, and with him went everything bright and good in the world. Smith is dead, and so is the hope and happiness that he brought. Smith is gone, and Chief will never be the same again. Smith is dead, and without him, so is Chief.

        Smith is gone, and he isn't coming back.

        Smith is dead, and soon the bastard who killed him will be dead too.

        He's a dead man walking. The only problem is, Chief isn't sure if he's talking about the priest or himself.


	2. Shadow of the Day

        Smith's funeral is, by all objective terms of the word, beautiful. Bright, colorful flowers everywhere, and per Smith's oddly specific though probably to be expected request, everyone's wearing blue. Out of character for a funeral, but not to Smith. Blue was Smith's absolute favorite color, and even in (or maybe because of) his death, people are willing to oblige him. The funeral is brightly colored, much too bright. Chief absolutely hates how every outfit, every flower, every detail reminds him of Smith. It's so painful, but he too, is wearing blue, even if he's the only one who knows. Everything appears gray on Chief.

        Chief finds his heart making its new home in his throat and his stomach joining his feet as he watches someone lay a beautiful red rose on Smith's chest, right over the place the bullet tore through. Naturally, Smith's been cleaned up before the funeral even started. No distressing red, no heart wrenching bullet wounds to be visible. He's got his usual outfit, the suspenders with a button up shirt and some slacks. Not too formal, never too formal. Smith couldn't stand looking like he's going to walk into a business meeting instead of the police station. Chief can't imagine Smith in an actual suit, which is why he insisted on not putting the kid in one. Smith probably would've hated the suit idea, had he been here to object.

        _But he isn't. And it's all your fault._

        Chief can't take his eyes off that flower, glaring at it as though it had been the one to whisper his thoughts to him. It was right, of course, Smith isn't here, so the responsibility of dressing the boy and arranging the funeral rested with Chief. Chief, who's the closest thing that kid had to family in Riftdale, so no one had objected to Chief claiming the body and planning. What was it Smith would have said?  _Gee, Chief, learn to put the FUN in funeral!_

        The fun in funeral. What does that even mean? Should there be music playing? Nerf guns? Chief doesn't know what Smith would have wanted; he'd never asked Smith about funerals. He didn't think he had a reason to think he'd need to plan his partner's funeral. In fact, he thought it'd be the other way around, and oh god, he can see that now. Smith would have most definitely organized it to be more of a party than a place of mourning. Not out of meanness, of course not, but because he'd have wanted people to say goodbye the same way they said hello, with a smile and a good time.

        He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to die. Smith was too good, too pure, too full of love and the need to help people. Why did it have to be the most bright eyed, happy boy Chief had ever met in his life? Why did it have to be Smith?

        Smith's eye is closed, his ever present eyepatch covering the place his other eye had been. The eye Chief had shot out trying to stop him from seriously harming himself or Chief. The day Chief was sure he had killed the poor kid who had the unfortunate ability to tell puns that came true, who couldn't stop himself no matter how hard he tried. Chief always felt sickening guilt whenever he looked at the boy, knowing that his life was forever changed by the decision Chief had made. He wonders if Smith had been angry with him for it. He'll never know now.

        He'll never know a lot of things about the kid now.

_And the sun will set for you_

        Chief lifts his head up from staring at the face of the kid he failed to protect, tears streaming down his face despite his best efforts to stop them. Fuck it, he reasons he has a pretty damn good reason to cry right now. His family, his only family, is gone because he had failed to save him, to protect him.

        The sun is setting, at the same time it always sets around this time of year. Smith always loved watching the sun set below the sky, to be replaced by the moon. Chief wishes he took the time to actually appreciate the beauty with Smith, to ask him why he adores the colors so much. It really is beautiful, and Chief wishes he had told Smith he liked the sunsets too.

        He regrets a lot of things.

_The sun will set for you_

        The preacher is reading a passage from the Bible, and Chief almost wants to tell him to shut up. All that Bible talk, yet the man who killed him was a supposed man of the Lord. The Lord who watched Smith die at the hands of someone who was supposed to speak for him. That leaves a bitter taste in Chief's mouth. Why is that guy here? Do preachers come free with funerals? Did someone hire him when Chief wasn't looking? He doesn't know. He doesn't care. Let him speak, it gives Chief time to collect himself.

        The sky is a beautiful mixture of colors, much like the funeral, and much like Smith's part of the house. Reds, blues, oranges, pinks. Chief wishes Smith could see it. Wherever Smith is, if Smith is anywhere at all, Chief hopes he can see the sunsets. If there truly is an afterlife, Chief hopes Smith found the best one.

_And the shadow of the day_

The little corner of the world is slowly getting darker, throwing Riftdale and its neighbors into shadow. If Smith were here, he'd let out a soft exhale as if he'd been holding his breath while the sun went down. Without realizing it, Chief does the same little exhale Smith used to do. A few people are singing, but Chief doesn't know the words. He just listens, and wonders if Smith would have known the song.

        He hopes Smith likes it, anyway.

_Will embrace the world in gray_

        It seems like the entire world is gray now, without Smith. The little light in the darkness that always found a way to shine through. Chief wonders if death could stop Smith from finding a way to shine that light. Maybe somewhere, somehow, Chief will see the light again.

        Going after the Priest won't bring Smith back. Chief knows that, but damn if it won't feel good to watch the Priest suffer for taking the sunshine away. Sinners have to pay for their sins eventually.

_And the sun will set for you_

And Chief will make sure he does.


	3. This is My Vow

        Some would say Chief is obsessed with the Priest, whose name is apparently Christian, but Chief wouldn't say he's obsessed with that bastard. He's obsessed with getting justice for Smith. He's obsessed with stopping the man before he kills someone else who doesn't need to die, someone whose life holds a lot more meaning and worth than a murderous drug addict.

        Chief misses the days where he wanted to do anything else besides find the Priest. He misses when he could just look over and see the smiling face of a partner who was much too good to be seeing so much evil in the world. Gone are the days where he'd sit back and view files with Smith. Gone are the days where he could listen to Smith's jokes and watch him smile. Gone are the days where Chief could be happy.

        The only thing that fuels him now is his anger and thirst for revenge. The only thing keeping him from collapsing out of grief is the hatred pulsing through his veins at the thought of the Priest being out there a moment longer.

        He will catch him. He'll make him pay.

        If it were anyone else, Chief would question their ability to do their job properly. If it were anyone else as thirsty for vengeance as he is now, Chief would insist on them sitting the case out and taking a break from the RDPD. If it were anyone else dead and buried six feet under but Smith, Chief wouldn't understand how anyone could let their hatred and rage take over their logic and humanity, but it _is_ Smith dead, so Chief very much sympathizes with those officers who had gone mad from grief and the need for revenge. Anger courses through his veins, hatred burning hot and filling his lungs with choking ash.

        It's a good thing Smith can't see him like this, too far gone to be saved, but not far gone enough. It won't be over, he won't be satisfied, until the Priest is six feet under with the rest of his victims. Dead like Smith.

        God, Chief can almost hear Smith's voice now. Soft and full of innocence, concern weighing the usually light tone down. _Chief, are you really going to do this? You'll ruin your life!_

        Chief shakes the thoughts away, pushes his feelings down and locks them tightly away. There will be time to mourn, to deal with the pain later. He can't afford to let the Priest slip through his fingers again. He won't let another person be hurt by the Priest's bloody hands, stained permanently red with the blood of those he's slain. Smith's blood.

        If Chief were a religious man, he'd wager that the Christian God wants him to put an end to the Priest's antics, to silence the man who uses a supposedly benevolent and merciful being's name for his evil deeds. Michael versus Lucifer. Good versus Evil. No, Chief can't call himself good anymore, can he? He's fallen from what little grace he had. He _wants_ to kill a man. An evil man, but a man just the same. There's no good in that. He'd feel guilty for it, back down, but then he sees Smith's body on the floor, and he can't bring himself to care anymore.

        It's been three days since Smith's funeral, a little over a week since Smith's murder. His face is forever framed on the RDPD Wall of Fallen Officers, his name another number in the body count of officers who were killed on duty. One week, and Chief's life is forever ruined, and Smith's life is forever cut short.

        Occasionally officers and dispatch approach him, offering condolences and to check up on him. They've asked him odd questions, like if he had eaten yet or to remind him to drink water and get adequate amounts of sleep. After a round of questioning Susan from dispatch, Chief had found out that Smith had requested officers look out for Chief in the event that something were to happen to Smith. Even in death the kid still finds ways to tug at Chief's heartstrings, to bring a fond smile to the old man's lips. Even in death Smith still takes care of him. One day, that thought won't hurt as much. One day, Chief won't feel like crying and destroying something at the mere thought or mention of the one eyed cop whose entire mission in life was to bring good to people. One day, Chief will be able to breathe again.

        That day is not today. Today, Chief considers it a miracle he was able to get out of bed this morning. Today, Chief has to swallow around the lump in his throat to eat. Today, Chief has to fight down tears and push himself to work harder than he's ever worked before. Today, the grief and anger threaten to drag him down to the pits of hell. One day, he'll let them. One day, he'll drag the Priest down with him, and Chief's fall will be worth it. He hopes that day is soon.

        He shakes his head, too far into his thoughts and staring intently at the file yet again, not reading a word of it. He feels like he's memorized all of it, and not a single thing on here has helped him so far. His head shoots up when the door eases open, and he scrambles to make himself look at least somewhat less of a walking disaster, trying to make it look like he's at least being productive towards something other than the Priest. Not that it matters if he wasn't, anyway, because he still is assigned to the case, after all. It feels private, though, as if everyone would be able to see his thoughts and know his intentions if he lets them observe him for too long.

        "-anything?"

        Chief blinks and focuses on the person in his office, eyebrows furrowed in guilty confusion as he gets hit with the realization that he'd been completely ignoring them in favor for his own thoughts. He clears his throat and sits up straighter, absently reorganizing the things on his desk, "Sorry, I didn't catch that. What'd you say?"

        The woman, who Chief just now recognizes to be Susan, sighs at him and repeats herself for what has obviously been more than once, "Have you eaten anything?"

        "Oh, right. Not yet, I was just going to-"

        "It'll be there when you get back. You're coming to get something to eat with me, right now."

        The files might be here, but the Priest might not be, and Smith definitely won't be. Chief has an obligation to the kid, to the rest of the world. He has to bring the Priest down, even if that means he has to die.

        _Make him pay._

        Chief's made a deal with the Devil, and he's not about to back out now.


End file.
